A Day in the Life of a Shadow
by Agent Pumpkin
Summary: Everybody knows about Maxwell and his dubious ways, but does anybody know the truth about how he gets everything done so smoothly? Join a slightly confused, yet sharp and witty young shadow-servant in his every-day life, his sole task being to keep Maxwell happy. Read as he unravels the truth about humans, the real world and the secret behind "Them"...
1. The Tea Issue

**So, I'm taking a small break from writing We're All Pretenders (I've been writing it all day, pretty much, on and off, obviously), and I wrote this instead. I felt there was plenty of demand for a Maxwell servant P.O.V within the fandom. So here you go. Just to let you know, I am planning on making this guy official. Also, he's referred to as "Shadow", but that's not actually his name; I, however, cannot tell you his actual name, since that would ruin a plot for the big story I am planning with him once WaP is finished and done with (and maybe either after the Robyn and Pumpkin one, or during it).**

**Anyhow, I hope this is a nice change of pace. Just to let you know, there is no distinct story; each chapter is just like a new and fresh instalment. So, it will never end, really... it could end at 6 chapters... or 600, it's really up to how I feel, and how many ideas I have. However, now, the idea suits me great. **

**Please review, I'm curious about what you have to say!**

**~Jess~**

**X x**

You know, there are many things I simply cannot stand: mewling kittens, sour notes, liars, scoundrels, untied laces, sharpeners, milk, the light, all sorts of things. And yet, I am done some justice, as I do not have to deal with these things on a day to day basis. Unfortunately enough for me, I am bound; bound like a dog tied to a fence post. The difference? A dog has a chance of getting free – they're cute and pathetic enough for somebody to eventually look their way and feel pity, eventually releasing them. Me? I'm nothing but a silly shadow; a mark that frightens you. You see me, and you flinch. Why is that? Are people silly? Do they not understand anything beyond what is in front of their noses? Even so, the most curious 'human' (if you could call him that), without a shadow of a doubt, is Maxwell. Remember the things I mentioned earlier, the things I despise? Yeah, I'd take them all in turn for serving this prat.

"Shadow!" he'll call – sleazy bastard has two legs, why doesn't he use them? But I stand up and straighten my bow-tie and walk into the Throne room, tea in hand. Yep, it's "tea time" again. He likes his tea, black and hot, slightest trace of sugar and he'll have your head. He can never have my head though, it's too important to me, and I don't really feel like becoming his most prized monument. Mostly because any monument of _his _would live in complete shame.

The thing that strikes me odd about this strangely charming fellow, is not his physique, or his motor-mouth, nor his pedantic actions or his incredibly unstable thirst for evil, but the way he stays so calm. He has a new victim, see – lovely lass, she seems. But he gets so defensive whenever I ask even genuine questions. It frustrates me; he never minded before. It seems since this latest victim came into the equation, everything went topsy-turvy and collapsed at his feet.

"Which tea is this?" he asked me with a glint in his eye. I stiffened.

"The same as you had yesterday, sir." I replied, almost robotically. I have no business in showing any kind of emotion to him; he'd only home in on it... and destroy it. He sees it as a curse for me to have an opinion of my own, mostly because I just can't bring myself to condone most of his terrible antics. I know the word he despises the absolute most:

_No_.

He just doesn't take refusal. It's quite amusing to try though – in the few seconds you have left to live after you've told him so. Funny thing is, he's been promising to kill me for a good four years now, and I'm STILL awaiting my comeuppance; this man knows how to keep a guy waiting, in only the most uncomfortable of positions. I suppose I have to commend him for his undeniable intimidation, but his methods definitely lack creativity and depth. The spiral of depression is simple for his victims: be brought to this hell hole, realise they'll never get out, and then die. However long that takes.

"Well, I don't like it." he said, thrusting the cup back at me, some spilling over the edge and landing on me. It was hot, so very hot... I would have flipped the entire tray at him, but to be honest, I had to be grateful that he could make me feel some human phenomenon – even if the human phenomenon in question was pain, and an urge to slap him silly. But being diligent ol' me, though taxing, is definitely rewarding, as I get to keep my life. I sighed as I backed out of the room and then shoved the tray into a dark oblivion (the lazy method I took when I just couldn't be bothered to put something away), forever to stay there. Frustration does not suit me; my eyes do a funny thing when I'm annoyed, they seem to narrow in vision. Almost like living in a constant tunnel.

The hilarious thing is, he thinks I'm intent on making him more, like a good little servant. I will not. And I will not for one reason:

He _loved _that tea yesterday. I ain't seeing it as fit to make the guy some more. He wants tea, he can get his own. Then he'll be able to make it "right". I combed a hand through my hair as I wandered through the dark, dismal place. It was then that I realised:

"Yeah right, he can make it "right"... the guy probably can't even hold a teapot..."


	2. Giving Me The Boot

**A Day In The Life of a Shadow**

**Polishing Shoes (Even Though They're Already Polished)**

Of all the tasks Maxwell puts me through, there is one (among many others, but they're stories for another time) I don't understand: polishing his shoes. His shoes are already as black as his heart, and as shiny as his charming grin, what more does he want? I can't wear anything away, because there's nothing _to _be away with. Sitting in front of him is degrading enough, but on my knees with a piece of sandpaper and a 'bottle' of polish, as well as a brush, a cloth and my own fingers, is just crossing that ridiculous line. The thing is, I always try to cut corners – and it _never _works.

"What are you doing?" he asked. I looked up from my handiwork to look at him; he didn't seem too impressed. What had I done this time? Oh, I'd probably used the polish before rubbing his already pristine shoes "clean" with my fingers. Silly me, who am I to even think I deserve even the least bit of respect?

"What you told me to, sir," I responded. It's a wonder I keep my tone with this man. I suppose that means there are two fantastic actors in the room. Maxwell can lie and cheat and steal for all he is worth, and is _very _good at it. However, there's always me who is secretly longing to strangle him to death, but never once steps out of line, even though I have all the reason and more to do so. I suppose part of it is fear – though I write wretched words about him in my book (I call it "The Vent" for it's sheer atrocity) and degrade him all I can in my head, I have seen him in a frenzy, and it is _not _something to take lightly. He is beyond threatening when angry, and I would never wish to make him so... but there is always that temptation to step out of line just to see if he brushes me off as a mere silly shadow, or if he would go into a full blown rage, calling me selfish and ungrateful and all sorts of other untrue things. And, of course, the other part of me just hopes that, if I do all he says, and do it right and nicely without complaint, he won't be so tough. I'm probably a fool for hoping he drops his harsh ways. I should probably stop, and accept the fact that he will _never _soften. This demon is beyond change, or so it seems.

"Oh really?" he speaks up. Of course I am, I'm in front of your feet on my knees, you silly old fool. "Because I'm sure I told you to polish. _Not _slack off, pal."

Now, imagine a punch-bag. Now imagine it suddenly disappearing. That was a metaphor for me knocking this guy's teeth in and proceeding to delete him from the planet's existence. I am sick to death of this treatment, and it makes me sick to know it's actually the thing sating my lust for humanity. Knowing that humans perform these tasks every day and night, or that is common for people to do these things makes me feel slightly more at-home and in-touch with the world around me. I know nothing about it, however; only what _They _tell me, and I'm sure by now it's all rubbish anyway.

"S-Sorry...," I mumbled, though I'm sure we both understood that I wasn't really, and that it was just customary to say so. He stared at me a moment, before narrowing his eyes and shrugging me off. I knew that gesture. It was the "get out of my sight" gesture. I looked at him blankly for a few moments before straightening myself out, standing before him rather than kneeling. It was funny, I was almost as tall as he was while he was sitting down, slumped in his Throne. It looked as if he had given up.

"I can imagine you are," he hissed, looking me up and down, and back again, eventually resting on my face again, locking eyes coldly. His gaze always made me shiver, and feel eerie, it was like a dagger. Actually, no, a dagger is much too meek a description; it was so sharp, knives would have cowered. The world's most sarcastic prat would have been reduced to a quivering baby. A machete would become a typical kitchen knife in comparison. Oh, it was such a scary thing. "Now, if you're through being a waste of my time, you can see yourself out." he finished, his sentence thick and heavy. I wasn't even sure what I'd done _wrong_, but I must have done something to upset the 'poor' man. I sighed and bent down to pick up my supplies, only for him to stop me. "I'll have to do them myself, so leave the things there."

I paused, nodding my head weakly and bowing briefly before inching towards the door, taking my time in case he found something else to say to me. He normally had a bundle of harsh comments up his sleeve... how I was a no-name and an empty being; that I had no recollection of anything because I was nothing. He certainly knew how to remind me of my place.

As I closed the door softly, I sighed and leaned against it. Part of me ached; I still didn't know of my mistake. Apparently I had 'slacked'? How so...? I realised I would probably never have the answer. But...

He could have at least had the decency to let me finish polishing his shoes that didn't even need polishing...


	3. Confusion Makes Sense

**A Day in the Life of a Shadow~**

**Just a note: these short stories are in no way linked (unless stated otherwise) or chronological. And I post these on DeviantART and Tumblr too. On DA, I am Agent-Pumpkin, and on Tumblr, I am robyn-the-hybrid (my profile picture is of Robyn, so you'd know).**

**Confusion Makes Sense... Sort Of.**

It's funny, humans often confuse themselves, whether it be through needless calculations, or their ability to think about the least likely outcome for so long that they convince themselves a problem exists when it simply does not. I don't understand why they do that. Another thing I don't get, and can never hope to get my head around, is that humans _enjoy _being confused. Mystery is the bane of my existence, being a nameless 'creature' with my origins so effortlessly concealed by the cruel laws they call fate, but in the human world, mystery is its own _genre!_ That's right, people indulge in the fact that they have no clue as to what the hell is going on. They don't understand what's happening... and they cheer and whoop in joy.

The thing is, the more I thought about it, the more I began to understand why this much was so:

Humans have no real concept of being utterly dumbfounded.

Now, now, let me explain. Yes, people are susceptible to particularly silly moments in which they feel they can't say or do anything in order to respond to the situation at hand. They also describe this as "dumbfounding", something that leaves them utterly speechless. Which is ridiculous, since there is nothing within the human world that is _raw_, that cannot be understood. I understand the imbalance of things such as religion, and magic, and even Science to some degree (though I digress, Science is there whether you like it or not – it works alongside other things, however), though they are not set in stone, and so it is natural to be confused, or have multiple options as to what you believe in, and what you do not.

Heh, that type of thinking wouldn't last you a day in this hell-hole; you wouldn't have time to think whether it was "moral" to kill the dog or not, or whether eating meat was a "sin". Such things do not exist here, sin is nothing but an old rumour, and pity is but an emotional disorder. According to 'Them', I have a lot of disorders; I think too much; I feel too much; I question too much. Oh, the questions. But one thing I know for certain:

Typical humans that are thrown into this land, by choice of the majesty himself (I'm not sure about his methods of choosing, however, I don't know how he deems them to be "worthy" of coming here), are always in such a mess when they eventually arrive. For starters, they cannot even begin to comprehend how some shadowy entity in the shape of hands came out of nowhere and dragged them through their floor. It's even questionable before that, when things begin happening, like radios speaking to them, paintings moving and having their minds constantly awake. That is their weakness. Ambiguity is their upmost weakness. It's quite funny, since in this world, that is all you're faced with every day.

You never know.

And you never will.

_Shadow, I hope you're not slacking._

I shook my head as I mixed items and objects around a little bit, changing the layout of his world; of course, he was the only one who could manipulate his world's grounds, since he's the one who made it. Plus, a weak little shadow like me could never hope to possess such grand reputation and honour as changing the way the world looked physically, and not just by 'decoration'.

"No, sir," I whispered back. Apparently, there's always been a certain timidness about me regarding Maxwell. He constantly picks up on it, and even calls me things like a "gentle soul" and then proceeds to laugh about it. The way I see it, at least I am considered to have one. He seems to have lost his along the road, power and corruption eating at him like everything else here. In that respect, it's only natural that he'd end up the way he is now after some time... but it still makes me so angry to think that it didn't have to be this way. He could have avoided everything if he hadn't made a contract with knowledge itself. But that is not my tedious tale to tell, nor my wrenching words to speak. "You see, I am doing everything you told me to."

_Yes, I must admit, you've been surprisingly useful this time... all right, that's enough. Stop, before you're entitled to some kind of respect for having done such a good job. _

I heard him snigger at the end of his sentence, but held my tongue like I always did. At the end of the day, I am the one laughing; I'm not bound to a place I despise. Well, I am, but not hardly as powerfully as he is. He hates it so, and seeing that confliction, and that fatigue on his face gives me a sick, twisted kind of pleasure. I suppose as a shadow, it is natural, but let me tell you something:

It certainly feels odd to me.

"Right, sir...," I mumbled back to him, and I felt a vacancy as he left me to his own devices. It seems so silly to think about, considering what is done is done and that's that, but I wonder how things would be if the situation was reversed. If I was on the Throne and he was the lowly servant. 'They' forbid me to think of that... but they can't stop me when I'm in Maxwell's hands. So long as they don't find out. If they did... b-but they wouldn't. Even Maxwell cowers from them, he has enough decency to not throw things regarding them in our faces, particularly when I, by technicality, am part of 'Them'.

In conclusion, I find a human approach to things very... awkward. It results in stress, tiring out, over-working and exhausting yourself through worrying. It doesn't sound so fun to me. The thing is, Maxwell is human too (the lucky guy), and he seems to have a different air about him. A cruel, demeaning air. I hate to think he's lost his humanity all because he couldn't cope with the ambiguity. Was he a victim of cluelessness too?

I suppose I'll never know.


	4. You're All The Same

**Hey guys, it's me, Agent Pumpkin, but you probably already knew that. **

**So, the newest chapter of A Day In The Life of a Shadow is here, I'm sorry it took a while; updates will be getting slower, for ALL of my works – hopefully, WaP will be updated some time this weekend. School's started again and I just... ugh, I have a lot to do, especially with this being my last year and all. So yeah, apologies to any really "late" updates (even though I didn't set myself a deadline anyhow), but this is the (good) reason why. **

**Anyhow, on with the fic!**

**A Day in the Life of a Shadow: Value.**

**X x**

Today, I witnessed something that I wish I hadn't: a human at their worst. They had reached a point in which they didn't want to continue on any more, the dreaded point in which everything was too much and so they felt they had to end it all. I'm not sure what it's called in the human world, the act of killing yourself, but here, it is called "misplaced judgement" - it describes when a shadow amongst us has misjudged the hardships of being a Being of Darkness (more about those later) and has not adapted well enough to their obligations as demons. It's basically a way to shun shadows who grew weak, while looking good yourself as you haven't swept _your _duties as a shadow away. It's quite cruel, really.

But to see a human in such despair... it really made me angry. Of everything you can possibly witness as a human, you can witness at least one hundred times worse as a Being of Darkness. I don't understand how one species could be so selfish, and so arrogant as to think that they're the worst off all because they think that they are above everything else. It's as if humans expect the world to shift for them because they have issues; they pray to Gods, and they read odd books and practices to help soothe their anxieties regarding their troubles, but at the end of the day, their beliefs and their prayers are the equivalent of talking to a brick wall.

Because who honestly cares?

It's everybody for themselves, or so I was taught. There have been many occasions in which I have been forced to leave others suffering behind, convincing myself that I was simply doing as I was supposed to. And only now have I realised how disgustingly wrong it is... yet it doesn't stop me believing in it so strongly. It doesn't stop me from thinking that it's all for you, and you should think about yourself because nobody else is going to think about you. It doesn't stop me thinking that everybody, no matter who they befriend and get close to, is only ever really alone.

At the end of the day, everything has to end.

And so why hasn't my nightmare ended?

Everybody else I see come here, has it end. They die. Everybody outside, in the human world, has it end. They reach solutions to their problems, or subtract themselves from the equation of life. Even other shadow's have had it end. They either dispersed into pure darkness in which they cannot retain a somewhat human form (like I do) and so lose all sense of feeling, therefore losing all sense of anxiety and worry and stress. Or, like humans, they die – or get killed.

And yet here I am, stuck in a never ending vortex of agony. Maxwell is never kind. The shadows are never kind. All I am surrounded by is evil, and harshness, and pain. And yet I am the one who is on two feet, standing, and considering that maybe, despite all I've been through, there's a shred of light somewhere that I just missed before. Maybe I haven't been looking hard enough?

...or maybe I am doing the same thing as humans.

Maybe I am excusing my problems with empty promises that had once been made to me, believing in something that isn't actually there. Maybe I have taken it upon myself to trick my mind into believing that somebody, somewhere out there, actually cared about my alarming predicaments. Maybe I have actually dulled, and had a more dense look on life, feeling that somebody was bound to care, because to face the fact that I am alone hurts too much. I was too afraid to face it.

I'm _still _afraid to face it. But it isn't necessarily because I am alone. It is because I have seen what loneliness does to people, and how it constricts them endlessly. I have seen how hopeless they become... and it is always the same. They lose hope, and they give in. Give in to difficulties that, half of the time, aren't even as bad as they thought in the first place. They end up harming themselves over it – cutting themselves. Why? Did you know that if I had an opportunity to cut myself as a human, I'd take it, and smile? Not because I'm hell-bent on hating myself, not because the "pain relieves" (though honestly, how does it?) but because I'd be completely overjoyed to see blood running through (and out of, I guess) my veins, rather than what currently does run through them. Because do you know what runs through me right now, as I write this?

Nothing. Nothing at all. I am but a figment of Maxwell's imagination – he made me so simply, without a second thought. No personal characteristics thrown in; I made my personality on my own; built myself up like a bridge. But seriously, how many bridges that have been self constructed have you seen? I'll bet your answer is zero. Because of course it isn't possible for an inanimate object to build itself – it has to built up by somebody – or something – else. Which leads me to my next question:

Am I an impossible man?

That makes sense to me, I break all the laws of the Shadow Realm, and Beings of Darkness. I do not even behave like them; the most similar trait I have is my thirst for something more, though the uppers are trying their best to keep things concealed. They won't fool me – nobody fools me, even though I am but a lowly fool myself, as told by the King Maxwell himself. It's a shame, really.

But I pride myself in breaking rules. It isn't that I like to be a rule breaker and make chaos. I just like to feel things. Getting into trouble and doing something I'm not supposed to do has an odd exhilaration that I simply can't refuse from time to time. It has an intoxicating sense of freedom – one that very nearly chokes you, since you know it's within your grasp, but it'll never be yours for the sheer fact that you cannot bring yourself to _keep _acting out of line. Consistency is key if you wish to be free. But it's something I will never have.

Because I am a coward.

But I'd rather be a coward than the exact same as everybody else.

I'd rather be a coward, than a zombie.

**X x**

**You can tell I have terrible writer's block, since this piece doesn't flow much like his other ones. Yeah, it's intentional, honestly; it really brings out Shadow's curious side of things, I personally believe. Anyhow, I hope you liked it – that's me done for a while. **

**~Jess~**


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